Richard P. Henrick
Counterforce
Counterforce — the nuclear war-fighting strategy of targeting an enemy’s military command posts and communications relay stations in order to make a retaliatory strike impossible.
“I am convinced… that even one nuclear bomb dropped by one side over the other would result in a general nuclear exchange — a nuclear holocaust not only for our two nations, but the entire world….
The starting of a nuclear war would spell annihilation for the aggressor himself.”
“I call heaven and earth to witness this day, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing. Choose therefore life, that both thou and thy seed may live.”
Chapter One
A familiar, dreaded growl sounded up ahead, and Konstantin Belchenko instantly froze in midstep.
Intently, he peered through the thick tree line to his left. For the first few seconds, all that he could make out were the shaggy white birch trunks. When the muted grunt repeated itself, Belchenko shifted his line of sight to the section of the wood directly before him.
There he spotted the fully grown black bear, furiously flaying at the ground, approximately one hundred meters away.
Aware of the creature’s great strength and unforgiving temper Belchenko respectfully kept his distance.
Crouching behind a fallen tree trunk, he reached inside the pocket of his greatcoat and removed a compact pair of binoculars. Barely the length and width of his own hand, the powerful field glasses were of German origin. They hardly needed to be adjusted as he brought them to his eyes and focused on. the beast blocking his progress. Upon sighting a fist-sized patch of shocking white fur on the bear’s right haunch, Belchenko smiled.
“Well, hello Pasha,” he whispered to the wind.
“It seems that we are destined to meet once again.”
It had been over two decades since Belchenko last set eyes on this particular creature. He would never forget that fateful morning, for he had just returned to these woods of his birth after a year’s stay in the jung led hell of Southeast Asia.
How very different were his ponderings at that time. Still guided by the exuberant high hopes of youth, Belchenko had looked to the future with great anticipation. Little did he realize the obstacles that would all too soon strip him of his ambitions.
Today, a more hardened, mature individual watched the huge bear with the white spot on his rump forage among the birches. Like a man reborn, Belchenko now looked at the world with a vision stripped of all illusion. Even nature’s basic realities took on a different perspective when viewed in this manner.
One thing that did not change though, was his love for this forest in which he had been raised. The woods outside the small city of Penza were as unspoiled today as they had been over fifty years ago. It was then that his father had been given exclusive use of the stone dacha Belchenko currently occupied. Located 525 kilometers southeast of Moscow on the banks of the Sura River, the cottage served as a welcome second home. Here the great tensions generated in the capital city could be temporarily appeased.
Belchenko had been there for almost a month now.
Sent packing from the Kremlin on the insistence of his doctor, the sixty-four-year-old bureaucrat had spent the first two weeks in bed, convalescing from a lung infection that had haunted him all summer. The rest, pure air and hearty country food that his nurse Katrina had prepared for him had certainly done the trick. Already his strength and vitality were returning.
For the past week, he had even felt good enough to begin hiking once again.
Well over six feet tall, Belchenko prided himself on his tight stomach and long, slender legs. As a youth, he had enjoyed walking for hours on end. As the gray began painting his ever-receding hairline, his jaunts had gradually decreased in length. Since his sickness he had felt fortunate just to be able to sit outside on a bench in Gorky Park.
Belchenko didn’t realize how much he missed his hikes until he had resumed them during the past week. Chancing upon the bear this morning was merely an added bonus. Just to wander the thick birch wood, far from the encroaching cries of humanity, was gift enough.
Above him a raven cried harshly, and Belchenko lowered his binoculars to look upward. Here, a small patch of bright blue sky was barely visible, the rest was blotted out by the tall, solid stand of trees. A cooling breeze swept through the forest and the slender trunks swayed in unison like the masts of a fleet of sailing ships. A shower of leaves cascaded from the upper boughs, and once more he was aware of the passing season. The first stirrings of fall were already in the air. Soon the icy winter winds would be upon them. Already the nights were conducive to a roaring fireplace. It wouldn’t be long before the hearth would be blazing twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
Shivering with this thought, Konstantin placed the binoculars back in his pocket and pulled the coat’s woolen collar up over his neck.
Angling his line of sight back into the woods, he was just able to catch a glimpse of the bear as it ambled off in the opposite direction.
“Goodbye old-timer, until next time,” the grayhaired bureaucrat offered softly.
“May your hibernation be sound and peaceful.”
Aware of the hour, Belchenko turned to retrace the narrow trail that led back to the dacha. With a full, strong stride he proceeded down the dirt footpath, conscious of the endless stands of white birch surrounding him on all sides. A covey of fat quail shot into the air on his right. This unexpected movement was followed by the sudden appearance of a large gray rabbit. Bounding by him in a burst of startled speed, the hare quickly disappeared into the underbrush.
Feeling younger and more energetic than he had in years, Konstantin Belchenko, First Deputy Director of the KGB, pushed himself homeward.
With lips tightly puckered, he whistled a spirited folk tune his mother used to sing to him when he was a boy. Even though he hadn’t heard the tune in years, the melody instantly came back to him. After repeating the song several times over, he rounded a broad bend and began climbing a steep hill. Halfway up the incline, he stopped whistling. By the time he had reached the summit, a thick line of sweat painted his brow.
With lungs wheezing for air, he halted and spat up a wad of viscous white mucus A sharp pain pierced the lower left portion of his ribcage.
Sobered by the gnawing spasm, Belchenko was abruptly brought back to reality. Cognizant of the fact that his ailment was still painfully present, he took a moment to regain his breath before starting on again.
The nearby rumbling of cascading waters helped to settle him down.
Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he looked out to a scene that calmed him like a strong tonic. Beyond, less than two kilometers distant, was the Sura. Its bubbling blue waters smacked white upon the huge boulders that shaped this portion of the mighty current. Spanning this band of water was a narrow suspension bridge. Barely able to accommodate a single vehicle, the bridge was connected to the opposite bank by a crude earthen roadway. Following this road for another kilometer, Belchenko could just make out the gabled wooden roof of his dacha. A thin ribbon of smoke could be seen rising from the cottage’s chimney; Katrina was already preparing for this afternoon’s guests.
Gradually, the pain in his left side subsided. Only a few weeks ago this spasm had been his constant companion for hours on end. Surely its quick abatement today meant that he was well on his way to total health. Chastising himself for hiking a bit too far, Belchenko knew that he couldn’t afford to get sick again. In the weeks that would follow, his physical well-being had to be assured. The very destiny of the Motherland would depend on his complete awareness.